by Jill Shalvis
Her green eyes went wide and he saw a spark of awareness in them. In spite of everything—getting filmed during their kiss, being dragged into this damn thing and then being wrongfully accused of two-timing her—Axel still wanted her. Really, really wanted her.
“How about if I forgive you for the nonexistent girlfriend?” Her sheepish reply didn’t strike him as nearly contrite enough.
He double-checked their surroundings for cameras and found they were thoroughly alone. His hands circled her wrists and he tugged her closer.
“You can do better than that.”
“I can’t imagine what you’d want.” She smiled up at him, a soft yellow sundress hugging her slight curves and showing off a hint of shoulder that made him want to kiss her there.
“Then we’d better work on your imagination.” Lifting a finger to trace the wide strap at her neck, he smoothed the cotton fabric over her collarbone and down the front of her chest to where it met the top of her dress.
She felt silky-smooth and warm.
She didn’t bother to hide the shiver that went through her. The throb of pulse at her throat picked up speed.
“That’s helping,” she confessed. “I’m starting to get more ideas for making it up to you.”
“Good.” He slid the keys from her fingers and hit the remote fob to unlock the passenger side. “You can tell me about them—in detail—once we’re safely behind locked doors and tinted windows.”
“Very wise. I like this cautious side of you.” She stepped into the vehicle and took her seat while he tucked the trailing hem of her skirt safely out of the way of the door.
“One of us needs to be sensible. And apparently that’s the role I’m going to get stuck with in this relationship since you’re way too reckless.”
Her jaw dropped as if she’d never heard such an accusation.
“Impulsive, maybe. Reckless? Never.”
“I wasn’t the one seeing girlfriends where there are none. And I wasn’t the one climbing the rafters yesterday.”
“Yes, well. Much has been made out of that and it was hardly a climb at all.”
He let her have the point so he could close the door and walk around to the driver’s side. He started the engine and checked the rearview mirror to see if the team bus was almost ready to leave. Plenty of guys were still milling around outside.
“So I’m going to collect on that apology of yours,” he promised her, wishing he had enough time and space to have her make good on it right here, right now. “And I’ll explain about the phone calls I needed to make this afternoon. But first, I’d like to figure out what we’re going to do to keep this thing between us out of the camera’s eye. And I’d like to know why your boss wields your talent like a puppeteer. Shouldn’t you be calling the shots for your project?”
“I’m not anyone’s puppet.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m just taking more instruction on this piece because I’ve been accused of not giving my films enough commercial appeal.”
Axel considered her words as he watched the equipment truck pull out of the parking lot. Transporting the skates and sticks, jerseys and pads took a lot of cargo space. But they also traveled with promotional paraphernalia and signs for the walls, enough reminders of home to make the visiting team’s locker room into more comfortable terrain.
“Is there any truth to that accusation?” He would far prefer that her film reach an audience of twelve.
“My subjects are usually geared to more of a niche market.” She popped open the purse at her feet and pulled out a handful of trifold flyers. “My first independent film revealed the gaps in government programs for women and children. Since then I’ve documented the watering down of public education, the violent behaviors of youth culture—”
“And they wanted you to do a hockey documentary?” He thumbed through the brochures she handed him, each one a promotional piece on a film she’d made. “Why pick a social crusader to chronicle our sport? Unless they want you to create some kind of controversy…”
He could already imagine the media angles. Hockey had been raked over the coals for being too violent often enough. He bristled, hating the thought of negative press around the sport he lived and breathed. Settling the flyers on the console between the seats, he wondered if he’d be seeing one soon that depicted hockey as some bloodthirsty caveman sport.
“No. I might have been more excited about this piece if that had been the case.” She turned around in the passenger seat to peer out the back window, her cinnamon-colored hair slipping off her shoulder as she moved. “It looks like the team bus is ready to go.”
He pried his eyes from the creamy patch of skin visible at the base of her neck, then shifted the SUV into Reverse to follow his teammates to a nearby airstrip.
“So what gives?” He felt only a trace of guilt at quizzing her about the movie, knowing she probably wouldn’t have talked to him so freely if they hadn’t been growing closer.
But he had damn good reasons for wanting to know more and he needed to plow ahead.
“I think the producers want the sleek look and editing that I can bring to the final product since I’ve been receiving critical notice this year. But they’re maintaining full control of the content to dictate the way I pull it together.”
He mulled that over as they turned onto the highway for the short trip. “And you agreed because they enticed you with some interesting future project you couldn’t refuse.”
“A film about the way social media depersonalizes human interaction and becomes a sophisticated medium for cyberbullying.” There was a fierceness in her voice that revealed how much the issue meant to her.
“So you’re in their pocket.” His sticking close to the director had backfired in a spectacular way.
For one thing, Jennifer didn’t have the final say on how this documentary turned out. For another, his attraction to her had only put him more directly in front of the camera lens he’d hoped to avoid.
“I like to think of it as contractually obligated. Besides, maybe it will be easier to take a commercial approach on a topic where I’m not as personally invested.”
“Yet.” He slowed down for a motorcycle in front of him and then moved into the passing lane. “We’ll make a hockey fan out of you at tonight’s game. I think you’re going to become personally invested in a hurry.”
As he went to pass the bike, the rider sped up. Not in a mood to play games, Axel eased back into the driving lane. Only then did he notice the leather vest the biker wore. The all-too-familiar insignia of a notorious motorcycle club that had branches on both sides of the Atlantic—Destroyers MC.
Shit.
Axel accelerated again, telling himself it was just a coincidence. Had to be. Jen’s film hadn’t even been released yet and he hadn’t done a damn thing to attract the attention of his former gang. Besides, he wasn’t even driving his own car.
Still, his old club had intelligence connections to rival the State Department. They could have gotten wind of the documentary series long before he had. Reaching to the passenger side, he felt for Jen’s buckle, making sure she was safely strapped in.
Vaguely, he realized she was still speaking—something about hockey. Too bad his brain had tuned out everything but the rider in front of him. He’d always known they’d let him walk away too easily. That they’d come to collect somehow, someday.
“Axel?” Jen’s voice finally penetrated the cold fog of anxiety that surrounded him. “Are you okay? The bus is way ahead of us.”
“Is it?” He remembered that isolating a driver was a precursor to running him off the road.
Was this rider trying to separate them from the team? From the rest of traffic? Back in Finland, Axel had seen the kind of violence that gang was famous for.
“There’s the turn for the airport.” Jennifer pointed out the windshield to the left.
Just as the long-haired giant in Destroyers leathers put on his signal to make the same turn.
“Damn it.” H
e stifled other curses—both in English and Finnish—as the rider stayed ahead of them. Then he hit the automatic locks on the doors.
The private airstrip was on a quiet county road and the team bus was well out of sight.
“What’s wrong?” Beside him, Jennifer sounded puzzled.
“The guy in front of us.” Ax wiped a hand along his forehead, realizing he’d broken out in a cold sweat like a rookie goalie in his first shoot-out. “I think he wants to make trouble.”
“The burly dude on the motorcycle?” She sat forward in her seat. “Someone you know?”
Without warning, the biker threw on his brakes in the middle of the driving lane.
“What is he doing?” Jennifer shouted, gripping the dashboard.
Axel swerved to avoid him. Thank God there was no oncoming traffic.
As he stepped on the gas, he glared out the passenger window at the big, muscle-bound rider who’d nearly killed them all.
The guy’s expressionless face told Axel this was no accident. The man pointed his finger at them and flexed his thumb, pantomiming a gun.
* * *
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT all about?” Heart still racing at top speed, Jennifer clutched her chest as if she could slow her pulse with her hand. “Who was that and why does he have a death wish?”
She turned in her seat to watch the brain-addled biker dude out the back window. He just sat there in the middle of the road, straddling his bike and staring after them. Why didn’t he move out of the lane before another car came along?
“It’s a long story.” Axel’s cool, distant voice brought her head around.
“So? We’ve got nothing to do but talk on the way up to Montreal.”
“I am not sharing this with the team.” He gripped the wheel hard, the obvious tension in his posture making her remember something from the incident. His accent softened when he spoke slowly. Deliberately. He’d been in the U.S. for the last year of high school and all of college, but the foreign cadence still came through.
“Why did he fake shoot you with the finger gesture like an eight-year-old? Was that some kind of sick joke?” Her thoughts went to her sister, who had weathered all kinds of bullying and threats at her school. Jennifer knew plenty about the subtle coercions girls used on one another to maintain their power and social standing. But she was out of her element with the more overt intimidation tactics men used.
“Reader’s Digest version—I was in a motorcycle club in Finland when I was a teenage moron. It’s more like a gang than a club—once you’re in you do not get out.”
Up ahead, the airstrip became visible. The sight of civilization made her breathe easier and her heart rate slowed.
“He was threatening you.” She didn’t understand all the details but she knew that much. And this time she wasn’t jumping to conclusions.
“I am not sure what he wanted. I’ve never seen him before.” Axel’s jaw flexed when he spoke, his whole body tense as he steered them through the main gate. “But he was definitely sending me a message that I’ve pissed off the powers that be in the organization. I’m guessing it has something to do with this film you’re making.”
“How would they know about the film? Furthermore, why would it upset them so much they felt the need to risk that biker’s life to send their message?” Whatever happened to phone calls? And what if Axel really was in danger?
Jennifer’s stomach knotted at the thought. She’d only just met him, but already she felt a powerful connection to him. Sure, she might not want to act on it. Shouldn’t act on it. But the pull of it was undeniable.
The team bus unloaded near the plane while Axel parked the SUV.
“I don’t think the Destroyers are going to appreciate seeing my lifestyle broadcast to twenty different countries while they’re still scrapping over drug territories in Helsinki. I had a sense from the moment I walked away that they’d come back for me once I achieved some fame and social standing.”
“To steal from you? Blackmail you? And how involved were you with this group, by the way?” She was trying to get as many details from him as possible before they boarded the plane.
She could see why he wouldn’t want to discuss it in a public forum. Besides, she needed to meet with her crew and edit some raw film footage on the trip to Montreal.
“I ran messages and—before I was old enough to know what I was doing—I’m sure I must have run drugs, too.” He handed her back her keys. “I have no idea what they want from me now, but I’m obviously back on their radar.”
She slid the keys in her purse, stunned.
“You were part of a gang.” She envisioned hockey players as pampered athletes, funded by families with the money to drive their kids to far-flung games to hone their skills. She knew from an internet search the night before that his foster family in the U.S. was wealthy and influential, owning a global hotel conglomerate. “How old were you?”
“Eight when I first started going to the clubhouse with my stepfather. By the time he left my mother three years later, I knew better than to take a package with me when I ran messages and I’d quit doing that part of it, but I was already well entrenched.” He levered open the driver’s-side door. “We’d better get going. We don’t want to miss the plane.”
Jennifer remained in her seat, still processing this new piece of information that didn’t fit with her image of Axel Rankin at all.
A shiver of unease went through her. “This documentary could be really dangerous for you.” Now she understood his vocal opposition to her project. His resentment about showing her around the practice arena that day.
“I was on the phone all afternoon talking to my foster family to make sure they know I could be back on the gang’s radar after the documentary airs. But as it turns out, I’m already back in the crosshairs.”
Cold dread knotted in her stomach.
“You really think they might—” She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Try to hurt you?”
“At this point, that’s the least of my concerns.” He covered her hand with his, his blue eyes darker than usual. “I’m more worried that this film may be dangerous for you. When we come back to Philadelphia two days from now, you need to be careful.”
7
PHILADELPHIA 2, MONTREAL 1.
Vincent Girard liked the look of the numbers on the scoreboard as he skated off the ice the next afternoon following a narrow win in overtime. The team’s playmaker, Kyle Murphy, had made the game-winning goal with eighteen seconds to spare, the shot fed to him on a sweet pass by his foster brother, Axel. The two of them were something to see in a game situation—their passes to each other did not miss.
The arena was quiet after the hometown team’s loss. Most fans shuffled toward the exits, but a few Philly fans stuck around to cheer for the Phantoms as they filed off the ice toward the tunnel that would take them into the visitors’ locker room. Vinny’s eyes went to the stands in search of Chelsea, the way they did after every game.
What kind of guy waited nine months to make a move? He kept thinking she’d come around—open her eyes to his obvious attraction—sooner or later. But the waiting was killing him and it was becoming clear that she’d never see he wanted more unless he pushed.
A big freaking gamble when she’d made it known the players were like brothers to her, nothing more. He risked a lot here. Risked losing her completely.
“Way to go, Vinny!” a woman shouted, and he recognized Misty’s singsong voice above him as he neared the tunnel.
Peering up through the flutter of waving programs where fans tried to entice players to give autographs, he saw Chelsea and her friends. Misty was in front, pushing through the small crowd to claim a spot at the rail. Chelsea, Rosa and Keiko circled behind her. And was it his imagination, or did Chelsea hang back more than usual tonight?
He’d started to implement his more assertive strategy with her today when he’d given her the GPS. Had she started retreating from him already?
“Th
anks, Misty.” He lifted a hand to return her high five, pausing near the rail while the other guys milled around signing autographs and hats. “How did you make out on the trip up here? Did you get good directions?”
He knew the unit he’d bought was state-of-the-art, but until you got familiar with the settings, GPS devices could lead you down some unusual paths. His GPS in Minnesota had expected him to travel through a precarious mountain pass in January to deliver hay to a customer. The maps didn’t always take seasonal roads or construction into account.
“I’ll let Chelsea tell you about it.” Misty tugged her friend toward the rail while she stepped back, obviously wise to his attraction. “No hurry, Chels. We’re going to help the promo guys pack up the Phantoms hats.”
Sweat dripped in Vinny’s left eye, but the toll of the game didn’t detract from his body’s automatic response to the woman he’d wanted for months.
Chelsea Durant wasn’t particularly tall—five foot six, maybe—but she carried herself with strength and elegance. Her posture was perfect, her shoulders squared. Despite being a shy woman—at least with men—she never walked with her head down. Her chin tilted up, fierce determination and pride broadcast for all to see.
His very first night on the ice as an NHL player had landed him in an unwise fight with another player, giving the opposing team a key power play that led to a goal against the Phantoms. He’d also missed two passes, one of which led to a turnover.
It hadn’t been pretty. After the game, some wise-guy fan had told him to go back to Minnesota. Then, out of nowhere, Chelsea had butted her way in front of the guy. She suggested he go to Minnesota instead, and leave the job of cheering on the Phantoms to real fans.
“You had a great game,” Chelsea told him now, leaning down over the rail in a way that made his heart beat faster.
She reached for him, surprising the hell out of him. Had she gotten the message? Returned his interest?
Then, while he held his breath, she brushed the sweat from his eye and her hand came away bloody.
“You need to get that cut stitched,” she told him, her light brown eyebrows knitted in concern. “I was surprised they didn’t take you out of the game. What was Nico thinking?”
